One William Wallace

King Edward of England had long been eying Scotland and had positioned himself to be her overlord. But the king overlooked the fierce nationalism of her citizens and was completely unaware of the existence of one William Wallace. As the second son of a minor nobleman who was to inherit neither title nor land, William was preparing himself for a life in the church until the day his father was killed by the hands of the soldiers occupying his country. It changed the direction of his life.

Seen as a rebel and an outlaw by the English, yet a hero and defender by his countrymen, William steadfastly defended the sovereignty of Scotland. A ferocious defense to be sure...warfare in medieval times was harsh, merciless, unfair, and brutal...as was life in that era. Recruiting like-minded citizens to his cause, Wallace soon had an army of volunteers, all as passionate for freedom as he.
"We come here with no peaceful intent, but ready for battle, determined to avenge our wrongs and set our country free." William Wallace, before the Battle of Stirling Bridge-11 September 1297


In defense of his actions, Wallace asserted that he had never been a traitor to the king of England because he had never been Edward's subject and had never sworn fealty to him. Indeed, Edward was only the king of the nation that had invaded his country. Likewise, as Christians, we have not bowed the knee to the despotic prince of this present world, satan.


Wallace's only response upon being accused of treason against King Edward: "I can not be a traitor, for I owe him no allegiance. He is not my Sovereign; he never received my homage; and whilst life is in this persecuted body, he never shall receive it."
Braveheart's cry of "Freedom!" echoes down through the ages and we hear it even as we struggle for the territory satan is seeking to invade. He already has a toehold in the media, in the government and in the justice system: every vile word broadcast in the guise of entertainment, every unborn child killed legally in the name of convenience, and every oppressive, ungodly ruling handed down by liberal judges is testimony to that toehold.

Gather your band of like-minded revolutionaries... storm the castle of Lochmaben and capture Stirling Bridge. Repudiate the enticing offers of amnesty from the prince of the powers of the air. With strength of purpose and unswerving dedication, vow to never surrender. At the end of the age, the battle will be ours and we will have freedom!

This Battle

I never thought I would be in this battle. Innocently I believed that there was a "no tribulation zone" and that I was stationed there. But honest motives and all the best intentions cannot shelter or inoculate anyone from the fiery attacks of the devil.

Satan has an impressive arsenal at his disposal and most of his weapons don't appear to be such at all: music that sends false messages, media that glorifies wrong values, advertising that appeals to the flesh, worldly friends that lure us from our First Love, and pastimes that promise to be so much fun... satan lurks in the shadows, practicing guerrilla warfare. A dart of temptation here, an arrow of suggestion there. And it isn't long until hand to hand combat ensues. Or until one surrenders to the enemy...who really didn't seem to be an enemy...at first.

Paralyzed by Perfection

I dream of the perfect room: floral chintz sofa, plump battenburg lace pillows, white rocking chair, wild flowers tumbling out of a milk glass vase, filmy white curtains billowing in the breeze, buttery yellow walls, Queen Anne table with a softy glowing Victorian lamp and me, sitting in this charming room, sipping a cup of steaming, fragrant tea.

Not so charming reality intrudes--shabby burgundy couch and chair, dining table turned school table, bookcase overflowing with books, heavy drapes, a filing cabinet and an old brass lamp. I haven't vacuumed in awhile and the school books are scattered carelessly across the table. The windows are streaky and the window ledges dusty.

Feeling defeated, I gaze around the room again--where do I start to turn this space into the room I dream of? Because it is so far from what I want it to be, so far from the perfect room I keep in my head, paralysis sets in and I'm unable to do anything. Even simply cleaning the room seems impossible. I'm paralyzed by the perfection I demand of that room.

Here and there, one can catch a glimpse of the vision I have for my living room: the teacup and teapot collection, silk flowers in a yellow and blue vase, a pastel quilt draped across the back of the couch, an antique end table topped with a crocheted doily and lace panels behind the drapes.

Encouraged by these little vignettes, I banish the books from the table, and thin out the bookcase. Brass cleaner soon has the lamp gleaming and Windex makes the windows sparkle. I drape a doilly over the lamp shade and replace a modern picture with an heirloom portrait. I tie one of the drapes back with a fluffy tassle and the sunlight streams in. The whistle of a teapot calls me and soon I am holding my cup of steaming tea. Maybe this isn't the room of my dreams but it is the room of my reality. Today, I'm ok with that. And tomorrow, maybe I will figure out what to do about that couch...

I Give Me Back to You

It's not that I don't want me,
In fact, I really do,
It's because my life isn't really mine,
Lord, I give me back to you.

You've provided all my worldly goods,
You gave me every friend,
Filled my life with deep-down joy,
And a love that will not end.

So I commit unto your will,
This body I once called mine,
Fill it with your Spirit, wholly,
And with a purpose divine.

Make me aware of each deed
That You would have me do
Of each word that I might say
To bring someone to You.

Lord,I pray You might reveal
Your perfect will for me,
And be with me, help me grow,
To be all You'd have me be.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

Bear Lake

From the lake's dark depths
Boulders arise,
Like monsters with
Malevolent eyes.

By the water's edge,
Evergreen tree grows,
Dabbling in the lake
Brown and woody toes.

Jagged tooth mountains
Menacingly stand,
Guarding the lakeside
And snow-sprinkled land.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

The Sharecropper's Dream

Barely admitted,
Nonetheless there,
Dreams of ownership,
With vows of care.

Hope of her heart,
Work of her hand,
Crop of her own,
A dream of land.

Harvest the wheat,
Thresh it all down,
Load up the wagon,
Take it to town.

"Where's my share?"
The landlord cries.
And deep within her,
Something dies.

The truth hits hard-
There is no way.
Dreams last the night,
But wither by day.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

We Lost...

We lost...

The dismal echo
Fills my mind
But there's victory
Of another kind.

Victory over self,
Over one's fears
Victory in spirit
Lasts through the years.

There's pride involved
In a well-played game
Whether lost or won
It's still the same.

When you fought your hardest
And gave your all,
It matters not
who got the ball

The ache is there
Of course it's tough
To pick up the pieces
when the going gets rough.

Somehow victory
Seems to be more
Than beating a team
Running up the score.

When the game is over
When your best you've done
Though it might seem otherwise,
You really have won!

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

Fall is Here

Fall's rustic footsteps
Are heard today.
She has arrived,
Decided to stay.

She brought her palette
And painted the trees
Ripened the grain
And sharpened the breeze.

The scent of leaves
Is in the air,
Yes, Fall has arrived,
She's found everywhere.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

Spring Eve

The smell of violets in the dew,
Wet leaves with sunlight shining through;
Rainbow stretched from oak to pine;
Robins on wet insects dine.

Squirrel is scolding, his nest is wet,
Little spring flowers a soaking did get;
Trees lifting their arms to the sky;
Spring breeze sings a lullaby.

The sun is setting, red-gold hue;
The pond is calm and darkest blue;
The woods are settling down to bed,
Daffodil nods her sleepy head.

Blue black night without a sound;
Night-owl keeps a watch around.
Forest fresh and animals free
May you thus forever be.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

Possibilities--

A blank sheet of paper
a sharpened pencil
and me...


All sorts of wonderful possibilities
crop up

a poem
a story
a song

or an empty piece of paper.

(maybe I should make a paper airplane...)

My Abraham Moment

I'm a parent. I'm a Christian. I'm not Abraham. Yet it seems to me that God is asking me to lay my Isaac on the altar. The thought of it is exquisitely painful. And if I didn't already know the end of the story, I don't think I'd even be able to consider it. As a mother, I would walk though fire to protect each one of my children.


With Abraham I can say "God will provide the lamb." By faith Abraham was obedient to offer his Isaac and God did provide the lamb. By faith, I need to offer up my own Isaac, even while I expectantly seek the ram in the bushes.


But I'm not Abraham and perhaps the end of my story is not the same as the end of Abraham's story. God may yet require a fiery sacrifice, not the literal sacrificial fire of Abraham's day but a trial by fire. I know how Abraham's story ends and I trust that is how my story will end---it's just the part right before the ending that I'm unsure about.



Dutifully, yet a bit hesitantly, I purpose to release my Isaac in blind obedience and full faith. And obedience and faith are what God desires of me. God is God, whether a lamb is provided or not. My Isaac was His long before he was mine. And God loves him even more than I do.

Here I have built my altar--here I have placed my Isaac. I release my child...to a fiery trial or to the gracious appearance of the Lamb of God. This is my Abraham moment.

Bacon Factions

Bacon---people in my family have very strong feelings about it.





We have the "Everything Tastes Better With Bacon" faction, the "Bacon is Only For Breakfast" faction and the "Bacon Isn't Even Really Meat" faction.

There is one who thinks bacon wrapped meat is perfectly appropriate while another thinks bacon bits on Caesar Salad is a bit over the top.

And there is the one who considered adopting a vegetarian lifestyle until she realized that would mean no more BLT sandwiches, which is practically un-american. And this particular child is extremely patriotic.

One of my favorite things to do with bacon is to wrap it around bundles of fresh green beans, drizzle with olive oil and bake...which is indisputable evidence as to the faction I hold to.

Good Grief.

I wonder how many times I have thoughtlessly uttered that phrase without thinking about what it means...now I am thinking about it...isn't grief always bad? Is it ever good?

It's good grief if you are drawn closer to the loved ones that remain. It's bad grief if you find yourself withdrawing from them.

It's good grief if you can do the things that are needful, even when it is painful. It's bad grief if there seems to be no reason to go on.

It's good grief when you can gratefully (and maybe a bit fiercely) hug your children. It's bad grief when you get too easily upset and impatient with them.

It's good grief when the sight of a friend with a grandpa, new baby or sibling brings tears to your eyes and a lump to your throat. It's bad grief when that same sight brings envy and thoughts of "that should be me."

It's good grief when loneliness for your loved one brings not only tears but gratitude for the time you had. It's bad grief when missing that one brings bitter tears and questions of why your time together was so limited.

It's good grief if you are a bit more introspective and quieter than usual. It's bad grief if you cut yourself off from communicating with the ones who love you.

It's good grief when it serves to bring you closer to God. It's bad grief when you begin blaming Him.

There will be seasons of grief in this life...praying for the grace to choose good grief.

This Grief

I thought I knew "Grief," having spent some time with her in past years. But this is not the Grief I remember.

This Grief seems crueler, stronger, even vindictive. She pops up most unexpectedly--in a book, during a song, while I'm sorting laundry or running errands. She greets my silent tears with disdain.

This Grief seems larger than I remember her. Sometimes she looms so large she blocks out the sun and her shadow touches everything. And every thing that her shadow touches, it spoils. I fear I will never be able to hear that song, visit that place or smell the fragrance of those flowers again without her presence.

Wearily, I go through the motions of life. In the distance, there is another shadow-a shadow in the shape of a cross. And I know that all I can do is cling to the base of that cross. Under the cross, Grief cannot touch me because here is Grace---Grace that can erase and obliterate all the remorse and regrets and accusations that Grief can throw at me.

Some Things at the Great Salt Plains State Park

Part II of our Boy Scout Adventure

Some things we saw:

the glow of a lantern inside a tent
a great blue heron
a flock of pelicans on the river
several big raccoons who intended to ravage our campsite

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some things we heard:

an owl
a group of noisy scouts--in the campsite across the swamp
the trickle of water in a little stream
birds chirping and pelicans quacking (if indeed pelicans quack)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some things we tasted:

quesadillas with rotel tomatoes
chai tea
red beans and rice (I didn't know they could taste that good!)
bacon, sausage and eggs

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some things we smelled:

let's not go there

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some things we said:

"What are you looking for with that metal detector?"
"Metal"

"The pelican, the pelican
Its beak can hold more than its belly-can."

"we ought to 'debrief' after this camp out"

"There's a spider in the bathroom!"
"Then go in the girls' bathroom..."
"That's where the spider is!"

"What are you writing?"
"You know my blog doesn't just write itself."

"The way you can tell if a person is a real minister is to quit paying him."

"Be quiet."

"Bacon is a thing of beauty."

"The really successful people aren't the people we put on pedestals."

~~~~and my favorite quote of the whole weekend~~~~

"Take the spoon out from under your arm, and come here and cook!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Treasure at Great Salt Plains State Park

Part I of our Boy Scout Adventure

Sprouting like mushrooms, the tents popped up all over the glen. Two cub scouts, six boy scouts and six adults occupied the campsite and those seven tents.

Among the men and boys:

There was the boy who knew his way around a frying pan and the one who was not afraid to get his hands dirty. There was the self-acclaimed firestarter and the universally acknowledged leader of (young) men. The chaplain and the cook. There was the bargain hunter and the ultimate salesman. The theologian and the philosopher. There were those who took a shower every day and those who did not. There was the cub scout I only saw at meal times and bedtime and the other cub scout who could hold his own (and then some) with the older boys.The treasure hunter and his assistant. And there was the snorer whose identity was never determined.


And...there were us girls...yeah...but we were determined not to let that get in our way. There was no "pink" at this camp out---no make-up, no mirrors, no fluff. (although I did find some "Sweet Pea" hand lotion in my coat pocket which I was kind enough to share with our scout master who was secure enough in his manhood to use) We pitched tents and hammered stakes. We picked up trash and did our share of K-P (but no more than our fair share.) We dug holes in the Great Salt Plains and discovered crystals. We used latrines without complaint. (although in the interest of complete disclosure, I did catch a ride with some guys to the "nice" bathroom a couple of times) We slept in our clothes, cooked our hotdogs on tree branches and ate food off the ground (okay, these last three are total exaggerations but the point is, we were troopers!)

We went to the Great Salt Plains to discover treasure but we came home with more treasure than the muddy crystals in our buckets. Memories of emerald grass under a sapphire sky, the twin gems of fellowship and friendship, and the numerous nuggets of laughter that were scattered throughout the weekend. But the greatest treasures of all were the glimpses we caught of the fine men our boys are on their way to becoming.

Jury Duty

Her name was Patricia Presley and she didn't look a bit like Priscilla or even Elvis. She looked more like Sarah Palin. She was Clerk of the County Court and she had summoned us into her presence on this first day of December, 2008. There were about 502 of us packed in the jury assembly room, a larger crowd than normal, which would account for the line which was longer than the lines on Black Friday and a lot less fun. By the time they had checked everyone in, the seating possibilites were exhausted and the latecomers ended up standing along the wall. "Sarah" assured us that people would soon be leaving and everyone would get a seat. I will only say that her definition of "soon" and mine were radically different.

People started settling into their books, their sudoku games, their crocheting, their texting, or their ironing(just kidding). Some unhappy souls, who had more faith in the system than I did, brought nothing to do, naively believing that things would move along quickly. For these people, they had a lovely selection of magazines to choose from, including the AARP Journel, Southern Living, Cars Today and Martha Stewart. The deputy sheriff walked up and down the aisle, recruiting people to join him in a game of dominoes. (I am not making this up)

Finally, a smartly dressed young lady came in with a wooden box and a stack of papers. They shuffled the papers around for awhile and then got down to business. I soon learned that the lists were in alphabetical order and by the time they called Richard Owens or Amanda Perkins or even Billy Norton, I was good to get back to my book or my sewing or my lesson planning or my macrame. (why do you think I am kidding?)

It took about 4 or 5 paper-shuffling, name calling episodes before we really had enough room to get comfortable. By this time, I had sewn on 17 buttons and made several friends: the Affair of the Heart lady, the gentleman with the ice-blue eyes, the new mom who liked to work out, the very young grandma who was a veteran of the jury selection process and a group of three women who I called the "Red Hat Ladies", who were having a good time!

At noon, we were released for lunch. I decided to explore a bit. Long, echoing halls with doors on either side, courtrooms with huge double doors that had ornate door handles and several old elevators. One seemed different from the others, complete with a real, live elevator operator and a computer panel and telephone. Then I noticed the sign above the closing doors: JAIL ELEVATOR. And suddenly the enormity and the reality of this whole experience hit home with me.

Twenty four hours later, I was again in the courtroom area but this time, it was not on an expedition to satisfy my curiosity. It was serious business. My name had actually been called and we were ushered into the courtroom. It was strangely quiet while we waited for the judge to appear. It felt surreal to be there and to hear the bailiff call out "All rise!" It was lot like the Perry Mason show, (which I am, of course, way too young to remember).

It wasn't long, however, before frivolus thoughts flew out of my head. The judge told us the type of case we might be listening to and my heart sank. This was where the choice of Adam and Eve had led us as a human race, here in a courtroom, beginning the process that would only legally determine the guilt or innocence of the man who sat before us. God alone knew the truth of the matter and was ultimately in control. That didn't ease the sick feeling in my heart.

I was not chosen to be among the first group the judge would interview and for that I was grateful. I listened to the questions that my peeers were asked and formulated my own answers. Several hours later, the lawyers eliminated about half of the potential jurors, leaving twelve seated there. The jury had been selected and I wasn't on it. Or so I thought.

The judge called three more people to be considered as alternates. Mine was the first name he called. With shaking knees, I somehow made it to the jury box. We were addressed as a group and questioned as a group. The judge noticed my hesitation to the question whether we would be able to set aside any preconceptions and be able to view the man as innocent. I knew I should be able to consider him innocent and I wanted to be salt and light in the jury, but deep inside me, emotions were churning. I glanced at the man who sat before me in all his presumed innocence. And I thought of the little girl whose life had been torn apart, who would have to stand before judge and jury, a solitary little soul who would be asked heart wrenching questions while he sat calmly, safely with his lawyer by his side. Tears came to my eyes.

I asked if I could speak privately to the judge, which he granted. I admitted to him that I didn't think I could be impartial. I am not an overly emotional or dramatic type of person but I could not hold back my tears. Neither lawyer had any objections to the judge's request to release me and I soberly took myself back to the jury assembly room, red eyes and all. The room was empty except for the court clerks; all of my "friends" from the past two days were gone. I gave my paperwork to the clerk, fully expecting to be told to return in the morning. They took my identification badge, scanned it and thanked me for my service. My jury duty was over.

So Many Songs Unsung: Noah Evan Felts

Christian Fellowship Home School Co-op: Spring Semester 2010

There were twenty-six mid-high students in Mrs. Park's class that hour and a lot of those students were boys...you could tell that before you even stepped into the room. Boyish laughter and high spirits spilled out from the classroom and into the hall. But this young man was different. Quiet and unassuming, earnest and hardworking, he listened in class and completed his lessons. It was World History--and it didn't really light his fire--until the name of Jesus came up. Then his light started shining. He knew Jesus and he loved Him. Jesus had a hold of his heart and gave him a purpose. I heard him talking about it one day...he wanted to be a youth pastor. He had already gone on several mission trips and shared Jesus in his church and on the street. He had so much to do and so many praise songs to sing.

I miss seeing him at the lunch table with Michael and Ethan; I miss his quiet presence at co-op. In the years to come, I will miss hearing about all the cool things he's doing and the people he is impacting for Christ. I will miss the songs he would have sung for Jesus. I take comfort in knowing that, although those songs are unsung here on earth, he is at Jesus' feet, singing them there.

Journey to My Friend: Part 8

Part 8: ♫ Just as I Am ♫

But bitterness and rebellion reigned in my heart. I nurtured resentment and ill-will toward my stepfather and something between disappointment and anger toward my mom. I lashed out angrily at my brothers. I ignored my younger half-siblings when I could get away with it. Yes, I knew it was sin but it wasn't my fault. So that made it understandable. And if God understood, then it was okay. However, deep in my heart, I knew it wasn't really okay. So I worked harder at being "Christian." I devised a self-improvement regimen for myself...I began a Bible reading program...I chose one of the ten commandments to work on each month...I copied verse after verse out of the Bible... However, I remained in a miserable state of mind because I knew it still wasn't okay. Grumbling and unhappy, we kids were working out in the field one hot summer day. It hadn't rained in several months and the corn was desperately dry. Heavy, awkward and hot to the touch, the irrigation pipes needed to be loaded onto the truck to be moved to another location. I looked up at the cloudless sky and challenged God: I asked Him to fill the sky with clouds to prove to me He was real and that He did love me. Sighing, I heaved another pipe onto the truck and glanced up in the sky. Still cloudless. More pipes on the truck, more complaining amongst ourselves. Another load delivered and another pile of pipes to load.

I don't know exactly how long it took for me to notice the clouds that had begun to bunch up in the sky. My joy at this welcome sight soon turned to self reproach. Who was I to be making demands of God? It came to me that I was nothing but a sinner, shaking my fist at a holy God, asking for proof of His existence and love. This was the first time I really understood that I was choosing to sin and that I was responsible for my choices. I finally realized that I really wasn't a good little girl and asked God to forgive me. The back of that old farm truck became the altar where I sacrificed my pride, resentment, and self-pity. Those moments under the blazing blue Nebraska sky with a few fluffy clouds defined the turning point of my life. He took me just as I was, nothing good in me, as I claimed the shed blood of Jesus.

Journey to My Friend: Part 7

Part 7: ♫ Jesus Loves Me ♫

I was a good girl. I worked hard in school; I never got into any trouble. At home, I obeyed my parents, at least outwardly. I wasn't disrespectful, at least not in the words that came out of my mouth. I did my work adequately--although I must admit, not always diligently! I loved my younger half-siblings and met their needs responsibly when they were in my care.



Yes, I was a good girl. And I thought it was enough. I loved Jesus, I knew He loved me. After all, I had been to Sunday School and Vacation Bible School when I was younger and I learned that song!




I clung to Jesus when when I heard a voice raised in anger toward my mother.
I clung to Jesus when that anger was directed toward us.
I clung to Jesus when I was bitterly cold and the tears froze on my cheeks.
I clung to Jesus when I was brought to face with the fact that I was powerless.

Although I didn't understand a lot of things, I trusted Jesus and I knew He loved me.

Journey to My Friend: Part 6

Part 6: ♫ Jesus Loves the Little Children ♫

'Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world'. I was a child, wasn't I? Therefore, Jesus loved me. Or He OUGHT to love me. There were many times when I didn't feel loved. But I was young and immature and didn't understand the nature of love. I thought if God really loved me, things would be a lot different.




So I prayed. A lot.

Things didn't change.


Except my understanding. As I got a bit older, probably around ten, I began to see, in a very limited way, how God was using events in my life.

It was also about this time that I began to believe in the sovereignty of God. Or maybe I was just getting a glimpse of what "sovereignty" meant. Of course, I didn't know that word, but I knew and believed that God had to be in complete control of everything or He wasn't God.

Journey to My Friend: Part 5

Part 5: ♫ Praise Him, Praise Him ♫

In the mid 1960's, friends of my parents offered to take us to VBS at their church two summers in a row and, for whatever reason, we were allowed to go.

Vacation Bible School... What happy memories! For me, it was a week beyond belief! Stories, games, crafts, singing ALL morning long! ...and snacks. To this day, I don't think I have ever tasted anything better than those cookies and kool-aid.

Vacation Bible School everyday! ...for five whole days! To some of the kids there, it was ho-him but to me, sheer happiness!

♫ ♫ ♫ 'If You're Happy and You Know It'
'Jesus Loves Me'
'Jesus Wants Me For a Sunbeam'
'The B-I-B-L-E'
'This Little Light of Mine'
'Jesus Loves The Little Children'
♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

And... 'Praise Him, Praise Him!'

I joined right in that happy song-not quite sure who I was praising or why or even what praise was. Not having had much experience with praise, it was puzzling to me. Plus I had no idea what in the world a "blessed Redeemer" was.

An, although it was my favorite part, I couldn't tell anyone about "His excellent greatness" because I had never experienced it. I wanted to be one of the children He carried in His arms all day long. But I wasn't...

Journey to My Friend: Part 4

Part 4: ♫ Oh, Holy Night ♫


Singing Christmas carols, I hacked my way down the row of corn. It was hot, I was hungry, and the corn leaves slashed my bare arms. The weeds were thick, the machete was dull and the row was endlessly long. So I sang to myself--Christmas carols--every single one I could remember. I wish I could say that I felt cooler or that the hours flew by...alas, it was still one hundred degrees and there were still just as many hours until dark as before. But now my mind was occupied with trying to remember all the verses of every Christmas song I could think of. As I worked, I sang and the unhappy, bitter thoughts were replaced by thoughts of the quietness of a holy, dark night. In my imagination, the night sky burst into glory as an angel shared the news that was to impact the entire world. And someday soon, it was to impact me in a personal way.

Journey to My Friend: Part 3

Part 3: ♫ Whispering Hope ♫

Before our summertime visits with the grandparents ended, my dear little Grandma shared with me her desire that I should take piano lessons and her hope that I could learn to play some of her favorite hymns: 'In the Garden', 'How Great Thou Art', 'Whispering Hope' and 'Beautiful Isle of Somewhere.'

I was a willing student but not naturally gifted. Sadly,the lessons lasted less than a year. After this, I struggled along by myself for awhile and learned to play several hymns--always in the keys of C, G, or F because I couldn't handle very many sharps or flats! And I never did figure out rhythm.

My repertoire included: 'When I Survey the Wondrous Cross', 'Oh, Sacred Head', and 'Silent Night'. (note: this is still pretty much the extent of my repertoire)

Then my step-dad decided my inexpert playing (I'm sure that is putting it mildly) was too much for any sane person to bear and my gospel piano career came to a screeching halt.

Journey to My Friend: Part 2

Part 2: ♫ For the Beauty of the Earth ♫

The first real hymn I remember learning was For the Beauty of the Earth. I loved the first line: "For the beauty of the earth, for the glory of the skies..." Spending virtually all of my waking non-school hours outdoors, I had a great appreciation for God's creation. Even though I didn't know God, I knew of God because His creation spoke to me of Him daily. I wanted to know more than the tidbits I had learned in my sporadic, brief spurts of Sunday School and Vacation Bible School. Those tidbits only whetted my appetite for more. But it was not to be--at least, not at that friendly little Methodist church. Sunday School, church, Vacation Bible School and summer visits with my grandparents came to an end as we kids became more useful out in the field.

I vividly remember a bit of childish reasoning that occurred about this time. I had not a doubt or question in my mind that God created all I saw. Then it came to me to wonder about God. Who created God? And I answered my own query with the singularly satisfying yet mystifying response, "God, of course." I remember laughing at myself. It was like looking at myself in the mirror, holding a mirror, looking at myself in the mirror, holding a mirror...It didn't seem to ever end and I wondered if it ever began...or if it just always was. (John 1)

Journey to My Friend: Part 1

Part 1: ♫ What a Friend We Have in Jesus ♫

Before I became a Christian, the concept of a heavenly Father was less than appealing due to my own experience with fathers. An inattentive and mostly absent father, and then a controlling, unkind stepfather made certain of that.

But a friend? I could use a friend...

I think the journey began in a small-town Methodist church with wooden pews, simple colored glass windows and a paper fan in front of each hymnal. It was one of those rare Sundays (soon to become obsolete) spent with my grandparents in the tiny town of Diller, Nebraska, population 394. They had sent my two brothers and me to Sunday School at the church a few blocks from their home. Shyly, I asked if I could stay for church. This was a huge thing. I had to have been less than 8 years old and excruciatingly shy. I didn't know anyone there and had no idea of what to expect, yet the desire of my heart was to go to church.

Sitting by myself, I drank it all in--the sunlight streaming through the windows, wooden floors that creaked as people walked by and an indescribable smell of oldness. I don't remember the sermon at all; it was probably full of mile-long words that had no meaning for me. But the music spoke to me! The lovely, old timey Gospel hymns told me of a Friend and thus began my journey.

Journey to my Friend: prelude

Prelude: ♫...Jesus sought me when a stranger...♫

Even now, after all these years, it still seems presumptuous for me to make the claim that God sought me. Yet, how would I have known to seek Him? How would I have known there was a God to seek? What could have put this desire in my decidedly sinful heart? I knew I was a sinner; I knew there was no good thing in me, oh, how clearly I knew that. Yet as conscious as I was of my sin, I also knew there was a God with a Solution for my sin.

He Will Never Pass This Way Again

He looked up at me, with shining, expectant eyes that seemed to be saying, "I killed it, Mommy. I wasted it."

He was so proud of himself and thrilled at his accomplishment. And it wasn't exactly an easy thing to do. He had worked very hard.

But I couldn't praise him. I felt no pride at his perseverance.

All the time he had spent stalking it...swallowed up in his triumphant victory...a hollow victory in my eyes. Would he look back someday and wish, even at that tender age, that he had made a different choice?

He doesn't realize how each one is fleeting and finite. He is too young to understand that once one is gone, it will never come back. He looks around and sees so many; to him, there's enough to go around, plenty to squander and kill.

He has beaten his best score on the computer game he has been playing lately. My son has learned to kill time.

Number Five

I originally wanted to title this: "Number Five on My List of Things That I Have Never Done Before But That I Finally Got To Do and Ended Up Really Liking" but I decided that was entirely too long and somehow not very grammatical (and I couldn't figure out how to fix it, anyway.) So Number Five it is. Why am I blogging about Number Five? Because that was an interesting experience and I just felt like blogging about it today. And because this is my blog and I can be as random as I please. Will I ever blog about Numbers One, Two, Three and Four? Quite possibly but not until I blog about Number Nine!

On July 17, 2010 I got to watch a Professional Bull Riders bull-riding event in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I came away from that experience with two solid convictions and two unanswered questions:


convictions:

1-I will never ride a bull

2-If anybody I love is ever going to ride a bull, I will not be watching. In fact, it would be best if I didn't even know it was going to happen.


questions:

1-How do they get the bulls so mad?

2-Why do cowboys wear such big belt buckles?


(If you know the answer to either of these questions, please feel free to keep that information to yourself. I am not so sure I want to know the answers.)


I settled back into my seat on the very top row of the Bank of Oklahoma Event Center in Tulsa, Oklahoma and was ready for a nice relaxing evening of watching cowboys ride bulls. Well! I don't know what I expected but from the very first cowboy's ride and subsequent---painful---fall, there was not a moment of relaxation! I was either still in shock from the last guy's fall or bracing myself for the next guy to get bucked off. The rodeo clown did his best to divert the bull's attention but he didn't do much to ease my tension. I knew that very soon some mama's son was going to climb up on a mad bull and the gate was going to open and that bull and his rider were going to blow out of there like a locomotive. And within 3 seconds, that cowboy was gonna be on terra firma once again. I spent the whole time alternately gripping the armrest, covering my eyes, screaming like a girl, jumping up and down on my seat (that may be a slight exaggeration) or asking deep questions like "did you SEE that?" But definitely not kicking back and relaxing.

I think my personality overdoses a little bit on the mercy side, so every time a cowboy got hurt or even just limped a bit on his way out of the arena, I couldn't help but wonder how much pain he was in and if he was going to be all right and whether his mama was there watching. Finally I decided that I was right on the border between ridiculousness and insanity...and that was someplace I just didn't want to be...

From the moment that we saw the cowboy getting ready to climb on the back of the bull to the very few seconds he was actually riding the bull to the time he spent groaning on the ground or limping away, the adrenaline was coursing through my blood stream, totally eliminating any need for caffeine even though it was literally three hours past my usual bedtime (I know that revelation is going to shock some of you!)

After the last cowboy tasted the dirt, I was left wondering what kind of mama would come to watch her son ride a bull and what Skeeter Kingsolver and Pistol Robinson's real names were...

In Which I Use a Geometric Proof...

Given: I am a momma
To Prove: I am a momma bear





1. I like Goldilocks and the 3 Bears.
1. There are bears in that story.






2. I have been sleeping a lot this winter.
2. Bears hibernate in winter. BHW Theorem. (Bears Hibernate in Winter Theorem)







3. This is a picture of me and a pony with hairy legs.
3. Bears are hairy animals. BHA Theorem

4. I haven't ridden my bike in weeks.
4. Bears do not ride bikes. BDRB Theorem

5. I have a Cub named Daniel.
5. Only Momma bears have cubs.

Therefore, I am a Momma Bear.

A Few Too Many Fugues...and A Few Too Many Johanns

"You'll love his music!" So I listened to fugue after fugue. After awhile, they all started to sound the same. Who am I kidding? ...they began sounding similar after the very first one.

I began to think the guy had some sort of similarity complex. I did some research on his life (The Bach Family--Seven Generations of Creative Genius by Karl Geiringer, printed in 1954 in Great Britain) and realized I was probably right. You should see that family tree!

Johann Sebastian Bach's father was named Johann Ambrosius Bach and his great-grandfather was Johannes. He had an uncle named Johann Christoph Bach. His brothers were named Johann Christoph, Johann Jakob, and Johann Nikolaus. He had a lot of cousins, most of whom were named, you guessed it, Johann. Some of their names: Johann Ernst, Johann Friedrich and Johann Michael.

At age 18, his first job was as a court musician for a German duke named Johann Ernst. Then when he was 22, he became organist at the church of St. Blasius. His predecessors at that church were: Johann Rudoph Ahle and Johann Georg Ahle. Besides his composing duties and organ playing, he gave music lessons, and some of his students were: Johann Martin Schubart, Johann Caspar Voglar and Johann Ludwig Krebs. For a funeral oration that he was commissioned to compose, he collaborated with a poet named Johann Christoph Gottsched. His competition in composition included Johann Pachelbel (of Canon in D fame) and Johann Jakob Froberger.

The names of three of his sons were: Johann Gottfried, Johann Christian and Johann Christoph Friedrich. (He had seventeen other children including a daughter named Johanna Carolina but I digress) No wonder the poor guy had issues.

It's not like there weren't any other nice names to choose from back in those days. Lovely names like: Wilhelm...Leopold...Friedrich...Philipp...Hans...Carl...Tobias...Hermann...Lorenz...Gottlieb... Ernst...

On second thought, maybe all those parents who chose the name "Johann" were onto something after all.

Response from J. S. Bach (Gasp!)

The aim and final end of all music should be none other than the glory of God and refreshment of the soul.

...and ...

For the glory of the most high God alone, and for my neighbour to learn from.

Music is an agreeable harmony for the honor of God and the permissible delights of the soul.
...and...
Harmony is next to Godliness.

I play the notes as they are written, but it is God who makes the music.

Soli Deo Gloria.

(P.S. Is your name really "Fan"? Is that a diminutive of "Fannie"?)

A Humble Letter of Apology to Mr. Bach

Dear Johann,

Please accept my humblest apologies. It appears that I stumbled upon music from The Well-Tempered Clavier. I have since learned that this music was written "for the profit and use of musical youth desirous of learning and especially for the pastime of those already skilled in this study" and not so much for my personal enjoyment...

And I do have to admit it was an impressive feat to compose a fugue in each major AND minor key from C to B. That is 48 compositions!! (somebody else did the math!)

Initially, I was pleased to note that your clavier was well-tempered. A pleasing temperament in a musical instrument cannot help but be an asset in musical endeavors. I soon discovered more ignorance on my part (this is turning into a rather humbling experience!) The temperament referred to is a system of tuning, not character. I understand you did your own piano tuning...well, technically, it was harpsichord and clavichord tuning. You tuned the instruments in such a way so that they could be played in all keys without having to be re-tuned to new fundamentals which allowed one to easily modulate into other keys. (I have no clue as to what that actually means) But I am pretty sure it was genius!

Keep up the good work!

Sincerely,
Your Ardent Fan

Minuet in G major
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=on1DDSLdDOo
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kCnpGQGO49o&feature=related

Polonaise-Menuet-March (from Anna Magdalena Notebook)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z58T49c_cvs&feature=fvw

harpsichord version of Polanaise in G minor
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w4El1zZH9rU&feature=related

Polonaise from JS Bach B Minor Suite
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rn07431VlPw&feature=related

concerto for 2 violins in D minor
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4JG8KkWhsiY&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6lIxxBLp8fU&feature=related

Brandenburg Concertos No.3 - i: Allegro Moderato
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hZ9qWpa2rIg&feature=related

An Open Letter to Johann Sebastian Bach

(I don't really like your preludes and fugues. sorry, dude. )


Dear Mr. Bach,

I tried...I really did...but if your compositions are going to put me to sleep and if you insist upon giving your music titles such as: Prelude and Fugue in D Major...Prelude and Fugue in A Minor...in C Minor...G Minor...A Major---you and I are going to have some "major" issues.

To begin with, each one sounds pretty much like the next one, and, I'm not going to lie to you here, they are all pretty boring. And another thing, I know for a fact that there were a lot of other instruments available to you in 1722 besides the organ.

You are going to have to do better than this.

Sincerely,
A Wanna-be Fan